


The Chaos

by elaborationlove



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 13:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9326264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elaborationlove/pseuds/elaborationlove
Summary: Lucien visits Rhysand’s cabin, wherein he sees Elain for the first time since the final events of A Court of Mist and Fury.





	

It becomes clear to Lucien that he is on the Wrong Side when Rhysand not only allows, but welcomes him into his home.

“Elain is in the sitting room, if you’d like a few moments with her before business.”

A voice emerges from the shadows beyond the door frame. “Just don’t get anything on the couch. Or the carpet.” Azriel steps into the light with a heavy tread. Both of the Night Court men stare at Lucien very seriously for agonizing seconds. He’s about to turn and leave with embarrassment and annoyance -- Rhysand acting as if he wasn’t thrust into the chaos that was discovering his mate -- when Rhysand cracks a wry smile that turns into a laugh and Azriel joins in, bending at the waist and wheezing with the apparent hilarity off the situation.

Regaining his composure, Lucien tucks a loose piece of hair behind his ear, just as Elain appears. The name, meaning _fawn_ , suits her so very well -- the one favor her father accomplished -- with her timid, oversized eyes. She is almost painfully alert. Lucien is undone. He attempts nonchalance in placing his near-shaking hand just above the door hinge. It keeps him from falling to his knees. Even with the rain drizzling behind him, her eyes sparkle slightly, and a glowing orb of warmth seems to gather in his belly.

Lucien steps past Rhysand. He finds calm in the center of his brain that seems not a brain at all, but  storm. The center, where base desires originate and poison his consciousness with _act, act, act_ and animal, barbaric images of himself and Elain -- but it is a source of calm, a complete and perfect paradox, the same as their pairing. He takes her hands, folded and clasped before her, in his own as Rhysand shuts the door.

Rhysand eyes Lucien briefly, then says, “I’ll be in the study when you’re ready.”

Then he is gone and Lucien is overcome with the urge to nuzzle into Elain, her hair, her perfectly unmarred neck, and breathe deeply. He refrains. She is still adjusting to her own new self and that is enough.

“Good morning,” he says instead.

She is more demure than he expected. For the few moments he’d seen her at the Cauldron, she’d been quiet, but he supposed most people would be, under threat of the King of Hybern. It’s almost painful, how reserved she is. He wonders how she can be joyful this way, without exuberance and vibrance. He swears to himself he will introduce her to unbridled joy and the ecstasy of life and keep her there.

“Good morning,” she says in half-whisper. Elain draws her eyes from his hands around hers to his face, looking up through her eyelashes.

It nearly breaks his heart, how a person can be so beautiful. He suspects it has nothing to do with her new fae features. It had always been Elain, human or fae. The connection and familiarity he felt with Feyre makes so much sense now: she was only one degree away from his mate. There was no substitution, though.

“You look beautiful today. Stunning, truly.”

She lowers her head slightly, golden waves falling into her face. The space around Lucien’s heart tightens: he’s made her uncomfortable and he could damn himself a thousand times for it and it still wouldn’t be enough. But she has to know. She’ll have to adjust because she’s his _mate_ and she is his idea of perfection. She must know that, even if he has to tell her every day, every hour.

Lucien reaches to move Elain’s hair behind her ear, but pauses a few inches short. He doesn’t want to push her, so he searches her face for permission and finds it when her eyes lock on his good eye and his metal eye. Something inside him snaps, just as the mating bond clicked into place so many weeks ago. It’s incredibly satisfying. His hand continues its path, brushing the locks of hair away. It’s nearly the same gesture he performed on himself minutes before, but a gentleness overtakes him. He can’t recall ever being so gentle in his life.

Lucien dips his head to speak to her -- she’s so small, he notes, for what must be the hundredth time -- “Perhaps we’d be more comfortable in the sitting room.” It’s so strained and formal, he can’t believe the words are coming out of his mouth, but Cauldron be damned, he’s nervous and at least his words get the job done because Elain has freed one of her hands, and with her fingers wrapped around his, she uses her other hand to lead him to the sitting room. It feels like a dream. His head spins when she passes him, her scent drifting to his nose.

Elain brings them to a fainting couch. There’s a blanket and a book, face down on top of it. Lucien aches. It feels like such an invitation to sweep the objects aside and make love to her and fuck her until she believes she’s as alluring and exquisite as he sees her. He refrains again, setting his jaw. She sits and moves the blanket and the book to the coffee table. She’s more comfortable here, sinking into the plush cushioning of the couch, her muscles giving slack.

Lucien sits at the edge, palms planted firmly on his knees. Before, he had a million things to say. Now, nowhere can he find an obvious starting point. He clears his throat. A few times, he opens his mouth to speak, only to think better of what he is about to say and close it.

On the fourth time, Elain leans over as if pushed, and kisses him straight on the lips. Lucien reaches for her face and locks his lips with hers, deepening the kiss beyond what he thinks she intended, bt he can feel the permissive whisper of her eyelashes, like little flames of fire, so he doesn’t let go. Something warm pulls at his navel from the inside. He’s quite sure if he’d been standing, he would have collapsed by now. Lucien still lisn’t convinced he won’t just fall off the couch with Elain’s mouth angling against his _just so_ and her slender fingers dancing up and down his spine and -- _oh_ \-- into his lap -- _holy shit_ \-- into his lap in search of his other hand.

He’s breathless when he summons the strength to pull away, whispering her name again and again like a prayer. His fingers move to her chin and he nudges her face up, saying her name one last time, clearly, with his good eye on hers.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

Aghast, he almost laughs. “What for?” he asks, smiling instead.

“You and Rhysand probably have much to talk about. I don’t mean to keep you from him -- I think he aches for my sister’s return more than even I do.”

Lucien does laugh, this time -- softly and shaking his head. “You’re just as golden as Feyre described. The most words I’ve ever heard you speak and they’re of the concern for others.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees something materialize on the coffee table. Wrapped up in Elain, it’s easy to ignore. The Suriel could appear and, except for the sake of Elain’s safety, he’s not sure he would even acknowledge it.

He takes her hands again, smoothing the pad of his thumb back and forth over her knuckles. Her shoulders round slightly -- in pleasure, he thinks, he hopes -- and he’s astounded he hasn’t yet fallen to bits over her. She is everything. Absolutely everything -- his whole universe wrapped up in a single soul, packaged into the most gorgeous individual he’s ever seen in his so many years.

“I also came here in part to see you, Elain.” If they were more familiar, he imagines this is where he’d growl at her in play, lunging for a grip of her waist (would his hands fit all the way around? She was so small.) and tackle her flat out on the couch for more of that delicious thing she performed with her lips before and maybe (definitely) more.

He notices her gaze drifting to his scar, his metal eye.

“Does it bother you?” he asks.

“No. It’s charming, actually. It’s you.”

Not knowing how to respond to this, he changes the subject. “I’d like to give you a garden. Or, space for one.”

“A garden?” She tilts her head to the side.

“If Tamlin ends up dead for all this, I’ll be High Lord of the Spring Court. Unless he suspects betrayal and changes the succession edict. We could live there, together. And you could have a garden, fully your own. Or anything you wanted, really. If you wanted.” It’s still not clear to him what her intent is. All of this is new to her, he reminds himself -- she may not want any part of it.

“That sounds nice.”

Elain, ever a surprise.

“Business, then?” Rhysand feigns relaxation at the door, though Lucien knows he’s more anxious to get to work bringing Feyre home than he is to leave Elain, even for a little while.

The carpet is smooth and even beneath his boots as he stands and he’s glad for the anchor. A smile, one that feels different from his usual smile of mischief, finds its way onto his face for Elain. _His_ Elain. His mate. There are no words for the moment, so he rounds the couch and walks toward Rhysand. Breeze from the rainstorm pushes its way in, making the curtains billow and wave.

He’s nearly to Rhysand when he hears Elain rise behind him. He doesn’t turn even as he hears her reaching for something on the small table. A few feet from Rhysand, his ears perk up at the sound of her voicing his name.

“Lucien.”

She holds a bowl in her two hands -- the mysteriously-appearing object. It’s blue, with alternating flowers and foxes carved into the wood around the circumference.

“Would you like some nuts?”

Rhysand catches him, as if practicing a trust fall, as he collapses.

And just like that, his future snaps into place -- his world is shattered into glitter and sunlight, just as Elain puts it back together again.  



End file.
